The Invisible Library

by Cogman, Genevieve

  ‘Just like that?’

  No language that I knew had any words to describe him.

  Irene tried to look nonchalant. ‘As I said, he approved of my literary taste.’

  An hour later, Irene was buttoning herself into a jacket and long skirt while Kai sat outside the dressing room on a rickety chair and read through the dossiers. The cheap clothing shop which Dominic had directed them to was certainly cheap, very definitely cheap, and had little that could be said for it other than the fact that it was cheap. If they were going to infiltrate high society, they’d need better clothing. And costumes that didn’t rely on heavy overcoats.

  ‘These lists don’t make any sense,’ Kai complained. ‘They say the same thing on both sides of the page.’

  Of course, he was looking at the Language vocabulary pages. Since he wasn’t a Librarian, he’d be seeing his native language instead of the Language. ‘Yes,’ Irene agreed, ‘they would, to you. Should I be surprised that you’re trying to read them?’ She arranged her blouse’s neckline so its ruffles sat above her jacket collar, and opened the dressing room door to join him.

  ‘Can’t blame me for trying,’ Kai said cheerfully. He looked her up and down. ‘Are you going to wear the hairpiece? Most of the women we’ve seen so far wear their hair longer than yours.’

  Irene looked unenthusiastically at the tattered partial wig that lay on the table like a mangy dark squirrel. ‘Wearing that thing’s going to cause more problems than going without,’ she decided. ‘I’ll be counter-fashionable. Let’s just be grateful that corsets aren’t required wear any longer.’

  ‘Why should I be grateful?’ Kai asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Because you don’t have to deal with me while I’m wearing one,’ Irene said flatly. ‘Now, give me a summary on what you’ve just been reading. Think of it as—’

  There was a crash from the street, and the sound of screaming. She turned to look at the window. Some sort of huge wind was blowing the smog outside into long grey veils, ripping through the sky like claws.

  ‘As?’ Kai asked. He came to his feet in a single neat bound, assuming a smooth attitude of superiority and lack of distraction.

  ‘Imminent disaster takes priority over on-the-job testing,’ Irene said. ‘Let’s see what’s going on out there.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kai made it down the stairs and outside first, and promptly stopped dead, face turned up to gawk at the sky like everyone else in the street. Irene, a step behind, looked up as well.

  Five zeppelins hung in the foggy sky, their propellers cutting through the clouds. While all displayed the same dark blue and red livery, one was much larger than the vessels that had taken up positions around it. This particular zeppelin trailed glittering, somewhat tawdry, gold streamers, and flaunted a coat of arms on its side.

  Irene strained her eyes, but she couldn’t make it out. ‘Kai,’ she muttered, ‘can you see the design painted on that airship?’

  Kai raised his hand to shield his eyes, and squinted. ‘There’s an eagle top left, in black and white on gold. Top right is a green crown on diagonal black and gold stripes. Bottom left is a vertically divided shield in red and white. And bottom right is some sort of harpy, again in black and white on gold. A hunting horn is right at the very bottom, with a horizontally divided shield in red and gold in the middle.’

  Irene frowned, trying to remember her heraldry. She’d been to a few places where it had been important, but surely something that crowded would have stuck in her mind . . . oh, wait, that was it. ‘It sounds,’ she said slowly, ‘like Liechtenstein.’

  ‘I thought that didn’t exist,’ Kai said blankly.

  ‘Course it does!’ a newspaper-seller scolded. He was perched on a battered stool next to his newspapers and a dramatic board that declared – MURDERER STALKS LONDON. ‘Best zeppelin-builders in the world, ain’t they?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Irene said. ‘My friend’s from Canada and he doesn’t know much about Europe.’

  ‘Oh. Oh well, then.’ The old man nodded as if it made perfect sense. ‘Wanna buy a paper, love? Got all the news on the horrible murder of Lord Wyndham.’

  ‘Pay the man, Kai,’ Irene directed, and picked up one of the papers. It was thin, coarse paper, with thick black ink that threatened to come off on her gloves.

  Kai handed over a few of Dominic’s coins. ‘Have they made an arrest yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Naaah.’ The old man leaned forward and tapped the side of his nose, glancing at the zeppelins. ‘But you know what they say?’

  ‘That the Liechtensteinians were involved?’ Irene guessed, pointing with the rolled-up paper at the zeppelins above.

  ‘Well. I mean. Makes sense, dunnit. What with them turning up like this so soon after that lord died, and all. And they do say that their Ambassador was Lord Wyndham’s friend. Very personal friend, if you take my meaning.’ The old man winked. ‘And they’re saying as how he was also his arch-rival and that they were,’ he paused to check the front page of his newspaper, ‘constantly intriguing against each other in the most diabolical manner.’

  ‘Is the Ambassador a vampire too?’ Irene asked. It would be totally inappropriate of her to use Kai as bait, if the Ambassador’s tastes ran that way. That was the sort of thing Bradamant would do, she reminded herself.

  ‘Naaah. Where’ve you been spending your time, love? Nah, he’s one of them Fair Folk, see. Always has to have artists draw his picture in the papers, ’cause none of them cameras will work on him, not even the stuff them geniuses make.’

  ‘Fair Folk,’ Irene said, a cold feeling gripping the pit of her stomach. This was bad news.

  Chaos liked (if liking was quite the word) to manifest into a world where it could take advantage of illogical laws. Vampires and werewolves were particularly vulnerable to chaos. After all, strictly speaking, why should werewolves be allergic to silver, or vampires to garlic, or sticky rice, or a dozen other things. And as for the reasoning behind vampires rising three days after death, or behind most of Dracula – anyhow, the point was that chaos used creatures that obeyed illogical laws logically. Fae or fairies or elves or youkai or whatever they were called were among its favourite agents. Some of them were even living pieces of chaos, slipped sideways into various worlds and taking form from human dreams and stories. If there were Fair Folk manifesting in this world, and being accepted by the population, then she needed to know. Dominic had made a note in the briefing about Liechtenstein being a ‘potential chaos portal’ but hadn’t gone into details. She wished that he had. Liechtenstein could be the nexus of all the chaos in this world, if it had perhaps been weakened by too many supernatural or Fae living there, though at this point she could only speculate. However, that would make any agents operating from Liechtenstein particularly suspect.

  ‘Right,’ she said briskly, taking a few steps out of the old man’s earshot, and gesturing Kai over with a wave of the newspaper. ‘We’re splitting up. I want you to find out everything you can about the Liechtenstein Ambassador, his Embassy, and his involvement in the current situation. I’ll check out Wyndham’s place. We’ll meet at the hotel in Russell Square – eight o’clock at the latest. Find some way to get a message to me there if you’re delayed.’

  ‘Wait,’ Kai said slowly. ‘You’re just sending me off, like that?’

  ‘Of course,’ Irene said firmly, and tried to ignore her slight feelings of disquiet. ‘You were already competent when the Library recruited you. It won’t do either of us any good for me to keep you under my thumb all the time.’ And it’ll drive me up the wall and onto the ceiling if I have to constantly operate with someone looking over my shoulder. ‘We need information as fast as possible. I’m relying on you. Do you have any problems with this?’

  He looked at her for a moment, then put his right fist to his left shoulder and gave her a formal bow. ‘You may rely on me to do my share of the work.’

  ‘Excellent.’ She smiled at him. ‘Then I’ll
be seeing you in a few hours.’

  He smiled back, his face surprisingly warm for a moment, then turned and headed briskly down the street, shoulders squared for action.

  She’d only known him for a few hours, but there was something reliable about him. And she had to admit that the way that he’d said he’d do ‘his share’ of the work was a well-balanced way of putting it. No attempts to try and do her share as well, no trying to wriggle out of it . . .

  Was she actually starting to like him? It wouldn’t be hard. Kai was likeable. She’d enjoy sharing a mission with someone that she liked. It’d make a nice change.

  Irene drew her veil partly across her face to shield her mouth and nose from the smoke and steam in the air. Most of the other women in the street wore veils across the lower parts of their faces too, ranging from filmy drifts of silk for the better-off to thick wads of cotton or linen for the poor. Men wore their scarves drawn up over their mouths. She wondered what they did in summer.

  She scanned the newspaper’s front page.

  LATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN

  WYNDHAM MURDER CASE,

  it read.

  Our correspondent informs us that the police have made great progress and expect an arrest at any moment.

  So the odds were that the police were still baffled. Good. It’d be difficult to extract the target document from a police station, if they did manage to catch the cat burglar and lock her up.

  Irene rolled the newspaper up, scanning the street. The local type of taxi-cab was black, small, and seemed to be a combination of old-fashioned hansom carriage and electric car. With some determined waving she managed to signal one over, and directed the driver to take her to the Hyde Park Corner Underground Railway station, a couple of streets away from Lord Wyndham’s residence.

  Lord Wyndham’s residence was in an expensive street, with marble frontages and clean-scrubbed gutters, unusual in this grime-stained London. The place stood dark and empty, in contrast to the houses on either side, both already lit up against the afternoon dimness. With practised experience, Irene made her way round to the servants’ entrance at the back.

  It was locked.

  She flicked a quick glance behind her. Although this back alley was far more active than the wide front street, nobody was currently in view – or, more importantly, within earshot – of her. She put her lips next to the lock and commanded in the Language, ‘Servants’ entry door lock, sealed and closed, now open!’

  The tumblers of the lock shivered and clicked open with gratifying vigour. The door shuddered and the latch came undone, letting the door swing open into a dark passage.

  Irene walked through the servants’ corridors into the main part of the house. The marks of the police search were obvious: drawers still hung open, there were piles of discarded linen and clothing everywhere and dirty boot-marks on the luxurious crimson carpets. The place hadn’t been tidied either, after the ‘rude interruption’ to the dinner party. Dirty plates and glasses were piled in stacks or left lying on polished tables, and ashtrays were full to overflowing with discarded cigar and cigarette ends.

  Despite searching with a certain horrified curiosity, she couldn’t find any secret torture chambers or rooms containing strange vampiric devices. She did find that the books displayed prominently in every chamber had been dusted, but the spines were pristine and un-creased. They had the sad, untouched air of literature paraded for display purposes but never actually used.

  It was profoundly depressing.

  Wyndham’s study was a large room with far too much pseudo-Degas artwork on the walls; a whole dozen pictures of women in ballet skirts showing off their legs. Thick crimson curtains matched the thick crimson carpet and the dark wood panelling. Her footsteps were silent.

  The heavy oak desk was bare of papers, and all the drawers were locked. She could open them later if she had to. A deep score mark marred the desk’s surface. Probably from the removal of Wyndham’s head. Bloodstains had soaked into the wood, spilling outwards from the line of the cut. She didn’t think they’d come out. The big chair behind the desk (ebony with black leather cushions – how vulgar) had been pushed over at some point. It had been repositioned, but had clearly been lying long enough to leave a dent in the plush carpet.

  Blood had soaked into the carpet too, but it was barely visible, a slightly darker brown amid the rich thick crimson.

  The glass display case in the corner could have held the Grimm book, Irene decided. For one thing, the case was sealed with all manner of complicated locks, catches and alarms. For another thing, it was now empty.

  Irene turned thoughtfully, looking around the room. Wyndham was the sort of man who would have needed a safe, and where better to keep it than in his study. She would have bet money on it. Now she just had to try and find it.

  Unsurprisingly, the biggest pseudo-Degas hid the safe. She swung the painting back and examined the heavy iron door. Combination lock. Well, she could always talk it open, but . . .

  She heard quick approaching footsteps on the main stairs. It must be a man; a woman wouldn’t stride like that, not in these skirts. But there wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the house! Perhaps another burglar? What marvellous timing.

  She quickly concealed the safe, and retreated behind one of the thick curtains. She needn’t fear discovery within its thick folds. Merely suffocation.

  The door swung open with a heavy creak. Clearly the intruder wasn’t bothering with caution. She waited until she heard the sound of the painting swinging back before she carefully peered round the edge of the curtain.

  The man had his back to her. He was of above average height, with well-squared shoulders and a slender waist. His pale hair, a shade somewhere between silver and lavender, was gathered back in a short tail that fell neatly against his perfectly fitted jacket. His trousers were just as well cut, moulded elegantly to his body. It was perfect formal visiting gear. If your host hadn’t been murdered. His top hat was tilted insouciantly to one side, and he was wearing pale grey kid gloves.

  He reached out a hand to delicately brush the wheel-handle of the safe, then snatched his fingers back with an angry hiss. A thin scent of burning flesh hung in the air, even through his gloves.

  Irene let the curtain fall back into place, and considered. Clearly there was more to Lord Wyndham’s alliance with the Fair Folk than met the eye, if he’d made sure that his safe was made of cold iron, so proof against Fae. This supported the newspaper’s whole ‘diabolical intrigue’ theory, and it rather fitted what she knew about the Fae. They liked complicated relationships. It didn’t matter if they were loved or hated, as long as the other person had strong feelings towards them. Strong enough, for instance, to install a completely Fae-proof safe. And if she’d been able to choose her options a few hours ago, being trapped in a dead vampire’s private study with an angry Fae would not have been one of them.

  Then, more alarmingly, she heard him sniff. It wasn’t the phlegmatic nose-clearing of a cold, it was a hungry sniff, a tasting of the air.

  ‘Ohhhh.’ His voice hung on the air like incense. ‘Come out, come out, little mouse. Or shall I come looking for you?’

  Irene took a deep breath, set her face to an expression of polite unconcern, and moved the curtain back. ‘The Liechtenstein Ambassador, I presume?’ she guessed.

  His face was as pretty as his body had suggested, but his eyes were slitted like a cat’s and pure gold. ‘Why,’ he said, tone smooth as honey, ‘you are quite correct. But what sort of little mouse hides behind the curtains? Are you a blackmailer, little mouse? A spy? A detective? A little rat in the arras, just waiting to be stabbed?’

  She seized the opportunity to present her cover-story. ‘I’m a journalist here to investigate Lord Wyndham’s murder, sir. I was hoping to interview you. I hadn’t dared hope to catch up with you so soon. If I could ask you for your views on the situation . . .’

  He glided a step towards her. ‘What paper do you represent?’

 
‘The Times,’ she said. There was a Times in practically every single alternate she’d ever visited.

  ‘And how did you know that I’d come here, pretty little mouse?’ There was something very predatory about his face now.

  ‘Well, of course, I had no idea,’ she rattled off hastily, reaching into her reticule. ‘It was a total surprise to meet you here, sir. But I suppose it’s not surprising that on hearing of his death, you naturally hurried to his domicile, with the intention of expressing your condolences to his—’

  His hand caught her wrist. ‘No guns, little mouse. I don’t think we want the police coming. No, this is all going to be very nice and quiet, and you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on . . .’

  She could lie to him. She could try to resist him. Or she could simply get that cool, elegant, well-gloved, slender hand off her wrist. ‘Take your hands off me, sir,’ she said, anger sliding into her voice. ‘Or you will regret it.’

  He paused. ‘You’re very self-assured,’ he said, and for the first time there was a fraction of something other than malice or purring self-satisfaction in his voice. Perhaps an edge of uncertainty. ‘I wonder. Are you perhaps a little more than you look?’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Irene answered.

  ‘And is there someone backing you?’

  ‘Someone you don’t want to antagonize,’ she said. She’d got the measure of his suspicion now. She’d only met lesser Fair Folk before, but they practically defined ‘so devious that they’d fall over if they tried to walk in a straight line’. This one was thinking in terms of conspiracies and agents. She could play that game just as well as anyone else. ‘But I can’t give names. Not even to an Ambassador. But what I can perhaps give is a degree of cooperation.’

  He released her wrist and raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘You intrigue me.’